i walk into the living room. mo is watching some show on michael murphey. she asks if that’s MY michael murphey. sorta, i say. he wasn’t really mine after he left austin. and dear god never make me hear wildfire again.

i could never hear wildfire too many times, she tells me.

i defiantly cue up the old stuff. alleys of austin. honolulu. geronimo’s cadillac. cosmic cowboy. she listens intently, then exclaims:

“god. i’m so glad i never had to hear him in concert.”

i contemplate the best place to dump a body in the desert on the impending drive to texas. but then she says:

“i love john prine.”

marriage is all about compromise. and maybe headphones.